


An Inhale, An Exhale

by TerribleTerribleOrbs



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 新ムーミン | Shin Moomin (Anime 1972)
Genre: Joxaren | The Joxter Meets Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Joxter wants to be a good dad, Maybe a part two, Mentioned Mumintroll | Moomintroll, Promise, Too Many Metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 21:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerribleTerribleOrbs/pseuds/TerribleTerribleOrbs
Summary: "The Joxter has only ever seen the Valley in winter. Winter and fall have always been the prettiest seasons to him, anyway, and the Valley wears them well. But if winter is a pearl necklace around the Valley’s throat, then spring is a glorious thing made of emerald and diamond and sapphire. The grass is green and wet with freshly melted snow, and each tree is already eagerly blooming once again. Birds have returned to their nests and the stream has unfrozen, welcoming fish back into its depths.And all to the tune of a boy and his harmonica."OR - The Joxter waxes poetic while waiting to meet his son.





	An Inhale, An Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> There is a criminal lack of fics with Joxter and Snufkin, sooo obviously I had to write one. My writing style isn't usually so, y'know, metaphor-y, but Moomin Valley is just. Pretty. So I tried to match it.

The harmonica sounds like someone breathing. Each note is pulled in and pushed out, each melody a gasp. It’s as if the very Valley itself is sighing like a lover under the musician’s feet, welcoming both him and spring back with a warm embrace. And oh, how happy it is to have them return. 

The Joxter has only ever seen the Valley in winter. He prefers to visit when no one is around to ask for _explanations_, when he can visit his oldest friend without having to worry about being asked to leave. Winter and fall have always been the prettiest seasons to him, anyway, and the Valley wears them well. But if winter is a pearl necklace around the Valley’s throat, then spring is a glorious thing made of emerald and diamond and sapphire. The grass is green and wet with freshly melted snow, and each tree is already eagerly blooming once again. Birds have returned to their nests and the stream has unfrozen, welcoming fish back into its depths.

And all to the tune of a boy and his harmonica.

The Joxter knows that this boy is his, technically. Really, though, he’d long given up that right to claim fatherhood. He hadn’t even known he _had_ a son. According to just about everyone he’d asked, the boy was almost exactly like him. Same face, same clothes, same voice. 

A wandering vagabond, never permanent. A distaste for “private property”. A _hatred_ for parks and the park keepers within them. He can’t _stand_ signs and goes out of his way to disobey them. Rules aren’t followed if they aren’t convenient, and even then he might just break them out of spite. 

The Joxter doesn’t know everything about his son - there are to be differences, of course. The Mymble inside him was bound to change things. Hell, it was probably only due to his mother’s genes that he can stay in Moomin Valley from the first day of spring until the latest days of fall. God, and there is so much more he doesn’t know, things far more important than how lazy the boy is or if he likes lounging about in fruit trees as much as his father. _Where_ had he spent the youngest years of his life? Was he looked after? Did he ever wonder who had left him his face, his tail, his paws? Did he care?

The Joxter doesn’t like taking anything seriously. He doesn’t like feeling complicated emotions. He’s lazy by _nature_, and having to _feel_ anything more complex than hunger and satisfaction is simply Too Much. 

The harmonica draws closer. It sounds almost like it’s calling out for something. A shuddering, shaking question looking for an answer. An answer soon found in the thumping of heavy footsteps on the floor above the kitchen, where the Joxter sit anxiously. An answer found in an excited call - “Snufkin! _Snufkiiiin_!” - and the shaking strain of some poor ladder. Outside, the music slows. Calmed by the gentle - or not so gentle, if the sounds above were anything to go by - response it was looking for. 

The harmonica lets out one final note. A quiet, shaking breath as the Valley is, at least, in spring. 

The Joxter stands and prepares to meet his son.


End file.
